Wash Away Our Sins
by LamiaCalls
Summary: Oliver always knew how to find him.


**AN: **This was written for the Yuletide exchange on AO3 for alasse!

* * *

James Farrow wiped the froth of beer from his mouth, and set his glass down. He was in his usual spot, a darkened corner of the tavern he frequented. The barmaid would, undoubtedly, bring him another pint in less than twenty minutes, as she always did.

He counted the years he had been in the sleepy fishing town by the marks he'd carved in the table. He used his nail to do it. There was a time when he'd been keenly aware of his appearance, of his casting potential, of keeping his body in good condition. Now, the ache of manual labour had washed all of that away. Fishing was hard work, and if the years hadn't gotten to him, the salt certainly had. It was good work though; physical, and used his whole body, just like acting had. And it was the only thing he'd found that exhausted him enough to let him actually sleep. Sleep without seeing his face.

The only problem was that he couldn't work all the time. Legally, they had to make him take time off.

So he spent his time drinking in The Broken Anchor, and reading. None of the books he once read, of course. It was too conspicuous to pull out Shakespeare or Thackery or Trollope. Instead, it was sailing stories and whatever shitty paperback that washed up with tourists in the summer. But, mostly, he lived and breathed and ate and drank and read and dreamt of the sea. This was his life now. And the more he embodied that role, the better he was at playing it.

It was a Tuesday evening, too early for the drunks, too late for the locals stopping in before supper. He had the pub to himself, for at least another few hours. It was his favourite time. Not even the rushing of waves to break his silence, only Ruby, the barmaid, wiping down the bar and fussing with the chairs.

Tonight, he had gotten lucky. Someone had left behind The Good Soldier by Ford Maddox Ford, and Ruby had kept it by for him. He had read it before, but that mattered little.

While he read, he liked to imagine how he would play the characters, which was his favourite pastime. What shapes would their body make? What parts of himself could he draw on to complete their picture? What hurt would be the most red and raw inside them, that he could give voice to? With the sailors of most of his books, the answer was simple and predictable. The writers were rarely gifted enough to vary the characters. But Ford Maddox Ford? James' whole body tingled at the possibilities of such unlikeable characters — he would play John Dowell, passionless and spineless.

Of course, with his most favourite pastime, came his least, too. In Florence Dowell, the manipulative wife, he could see Meredith so clearly, cutting across the stage towards him in a green dress and lips smeared in red. In Leonora Ashburnham, there was Filippa, and Wren as Nancy.

And that would mean that Edward Ashburnham was played by Richard. Passionate, and just as cunning as Florence as they mapped out an affair. Before, of course, he tired of her.

Pain bloomed in James' chest, and he bit down on his lip to stop the groan from escaping. Richard was still so easy to imagine, still so vivid, after all those years. All those long, painful years. It hurt James almost as much to imagine Richard alive as it did to imagine him —

No. No. One of those memories was more painful, in truth, because one he could not bring himself to think about. Despite it all, every night was plagued with visions of his bloated corpse. And remembering what Oliver had said to him once, about it reminding him of the fall of the sparrow.

That was the problem, too, with The Good Soldier. Where was Olver's part? What was the point, truly, and really, if Oliver didn't have a part to play?

But he forced himself to continue reading anyway. If nothing else, he didn't want to hurt Ruby's feelings, when she was always so kind to save him books, and setting it aside wouldn't do. But also, as he told himself every evening for almost five years now, it didn't do to think of any of them. That wasn't his life now, and it would do him well to set it aside. So, he should push through the pain.

It never worked, never helped. Didn't dull the ache in his chest, the twist of his gut, the emptiness inside him that ate away at his bones and leeched the life out of him.

He had been young once, he was sure of it. He had been young, at Dellecher, he knew for that for a fact. But it never felt like it. It always seemed like he had felt this way for his whole life. Tired and worn. Five years was a long time in this kind of life.

Something thudded on the table, and he looked up.

"How's the soldier? He as good as they say?" Ruby asked, sliding the pint towards him.

He smiled, and held up the book. He was almost halfway through it at this point. "Not half as good. He's sleeping with half the characters."

Ruby shook her head.

"Always the way, isn't it?" Ruby sighed. She looked back towards the bar. "Can I get you any supper?"

He shook his head. "Not yet."

She lingered for a moment, her mouth half-opened. Then she gave a minuscule shake of her head, and headed back towards the bar. James watched her go.

He often got the distinct impression from her that she was interested in him. It was just a feeling, but it was just an idea he got sometimes, when she looked at him just so. She was a widow, he remembered hearing once. And certainly many of the sailors he worked with, they had an eye for Ruby. But she rarely gave them the time of day. Whether it was romantic interest or not, she certainly had a soft spot for James, that he could be sure of.

He was grateful that she'd never fought to pursue it. He didn't know how any of that would even work. It had been so long since he'd had any feelings at all, passed guilt and shame and pain. He wasn't sure he was capable of feelings like that, anymore. And just like with his feelings of being perennially tired, so too he sometimes wondered if he'd ever truly had feelings for anyone at all.

There was a time when he was sure he was in love with Oliver. But that was so long ago now. And that time in his life was so marred and pocked by the events — by his own actions — that it was hard to unpick all the complicated feelings hidden within.

It was easier, anyway, to tell himself that he'd never truly loved him. That any feelings he had had were those fleeting feelings of youth, mixed with the heady wine of performance and adrenaline. And while he was sure there was something between them, how much of it had he retroactively applied to their time together, that had actually begun after Oliver had falsely confessed? That act, the care he took to keep James safe — though not from what truly mattered — had been the most dramatic show of love he had ever experienced. Would ever experience.

The door to the pub swung open, but James didn't look up. It would be some quiet drunk, no doubt.

After a moment or two, Ruby said: "Can I get you something? We don't do any of that assigned seating, you know?"

So a tourist then. James glanced up to share a look with Ruby, amused at the way she was shaking her head, exasperated.

Then his eyes flicked to the figure standing just inside the door, waiting, erroneously, for Ruby to seat them at a table — as if it were a restaurant.

But as he fixed his gaze, something sparked inside of him like flint, and his breath came out in a huff like he'd been winded.

It couldn't be.

It had to be.

James could barely focus his eyes, and it took him a moment to realise it's because they had tears in them. Not out of happiness or sadness or anything quite as mundane — no, the tightness in his ribs told him that it was because he was so scared that what was in front of him was nothing but the flickering of a ghost come to haunt him, a mirage set to disappear if James so much as whispered.

Oliver Marks. In the flesh. In front of him. Standing in the shoddy little pub that James frequented, totally separate from any life he'd had before.

"Is there going to be trouble?" Ruby asked, a growl in her voice.

James' shot out of his seat, almost knocking over his beer, but he caught it just in time.

"He's with me," he said quickly, breathlessly. "Can we get another beer?"

Ruby gave him a curious look, probably because he had never had a guest before, but then she nodded.

"Oliver," James said. His voice broke like waves over the name, so foreign on his tongue now. He cleared his throat. "Sit with me."

Oliver blinked at him, stood stock still for a moment. James curled his hand around his pint glass, wondering if he might turn right back around and leave. Had this been an accident? Had Oliver just happened to be touristing in this sleepy seaside town, and just happened to walk in to the exact pub James was in? And now, here he was, staring at a man he thought was dead. No, James wouldn't blame him if he did leave.

But Oliver shook himself, and took tentative steps towards him.

James had seen how prison had changed him, how his limbs had moved differently while he was in there, and the pain of it had been too much for him.

But here, he could see some of Oliver's old movements in the way he walked heavily on his heels, the way his arms swung just-so, and the way his shoulders snuck up towards his ears as he walked.

It was just as he had imagined, and it hurt so much because of that.

Oliver pulled the chair out opposite James, and sat cautiously.

James took his seat again. He didn't want to speak, not yet, not until Ruby had come with the beer. He didn't dare start talking if they were going to be interrupted.

So instead, he let his eyes rove over Oliver's face.

He looked the same, just the same. Yes, the wrinkles were there, the greying of his temples. His skin was thinner, because James could see some of the veins that wormed under his cheeks. But other than that — it had only been five years, James supposed, since he last saw him, set across the prison table from him. But those five years had felt like a lifetime.

Ruby put down the beer. She shot James a look, that asked if he was okay. James nodded. He wasn't sure if he was actually okay, but there was nothing to be done about that now.

"Oliver," James said. This time, the word was like honeyed wine on his tongue, hiding the poison underneath. "It's really you."

It was an obvious statement, but it was the only kind he knew how to make.

"It is," Oliver said. "James, I didn't know if I'd be able to find you."

James nodded, and tried not to twist his face. So long, he'd gone without hearing that voice. So long, he had dreamt that name on Oliver's lips, telling himself he never needed to hear it again, and now… and now, the sound threatened to drown him, threatened to crack him open and expose his yoke.

Instead he concentrated on the truth: Oliver had been looking for him. Oliver had wanted to find him.

"I'm glad you did," James said.

Oliver watched him, carefully. And suddenly James realised he had no idea, truly, how he looked. He bathed regularly — thank goodness — and kept his beard well-trimmed. Or relatively well-trimmed, in comparison to most of the men he worked with. He probably looked old, too, and scruffy. None of the boyish charm was left in him, he knew that much. But he hoped Oliver wouldn't find him wanting, hoped it with all his heart.

"I thought — when I heard — I didn't know, you know, until I got out," Oliver said, his words quick, stumbling over each other in their rush. "Nobody told me."

James didn't have to ask what he meant. Of course. Filippa, trying to protect Oliver, as always.

"I'm sorry," James said. "I'm sorry."

He hoped Oliver knew that the sorry stood in for so much. That Oliver had perhaps mourned him, that he hadn't visited him in prison more. And — well, the bigger thing, of course. The thing that James no longer had the strength to give words to.

"I'm just…" Oliver said. Then he stopped, took a sip of beer, and tried again. "I was so relieved. So relieved to figure it out. It took me a while, to track you down. But James… Gods, I missed you."

James tried to breathe, but it was hard.

"I missed you too," he said quietly. He wanted to reach out, to grab Oliver's hand. To tell him all the things he wanted to say, to spill all the pain that he had stored inside him, to give Oliver all and more.

But that was unfair. It had been so long. And Oliver had done so much for him. Had given up his life for him. For him.

"I'm sorry," James said again. "I didn't mean to cause you anymore pain."

Oliver shook his head.

"That doesn't matter now."

James shook his head, chuckled. He had not laughed in a long time.

"No," James said. "You can't wipe this slate clean. I have so much to make up for. So much to repay you. I don't even know — I couldn't even come close."

Oliver was shaking his head, his brow furrowed and his eyes wet.

"James, please," he said. He slid his hand across the table, and leant forward. "You're alive, that's all that matters."

He hadn't changed, not a bit. James' whole heart twisted and tried to change shape. James bit down to stop any strangled sound from escaping. It was everything, everything about him. There he was, still trying to be the helping hand, trying to do the right thing, trying to make sure everyone else was okay.

"Why didn't you make it easier for me to find you?" Oliver said, blinking the tears from his eyes.

James smiled. "I didn't know if anyone would try."

Oliver gave him a sidelong glance.

"What?" James said. He had missed that look, though. It stilled his heart and painted away some of the intervening years — nothing could rid him of all of them, but some of them.

""Can we go somewhere? Somewhere private?" Oliver asked.

James cleared his throat, opened his eyes. As if he would say no.

He led them out, giving a nod goodbye to Ruby, who had a perplexed look on her fine features. James couldn't blame her.

It was not far to the little cottage he rented. They didn't speak as they walked, side-by-side. James breathed in the sea air, and thought it had never smelt so sweet as it did tonight. The sun was almost gone, staining the sky with twilight and a speckling of stars. His brain was fuzzy, swelling not just with the soak of beer, but with the very idea of leading Oliver Marks down his garden path, and letting him into his house. There was a touch of unreal, like this was a rehearsal rather than the true performance.

But let Oliver into his house, he did. He wished he'd known he was coming, so he might have cleaned up a bit. It was a basic house, just a small living room and kitchen, and upstairs, a single bedroom.

"Sorry," James said, flicking the lights on.

"I know," Oliver said.

James went to the kitchen, put the kettle on the cooker. Tried to catch his breath, to ground himself in his own body, but it was so difficult.

Oliver appeared in the doorway.

"It's quaint," he said. "I like it."

James smiled, sudden shyness gritting his teeth.

"Thanks."

"Do you act at all, still?"

James laughed.

"No, I'm a sailor."

He was pleased to see Oliver's eyebrows shoot up, though he wasn't sure why.

"I suppose that makes sense," Oliver said slowly.

"Does it?"

Oliver laughed. "No, actually, I'm struggling to imagine you on a boat."

"I'll take you out some time," James said. "Then you won't have to imagine it."

"Tomorrow, if you like," Oliver said quickly. Then: "If you don't mind me staying over."

James tried not to react, but he knew his face had twisted before he caught himself. He turned away to get the mugs out of the cupboard to hide it.

"Of course," James said. He turned back. "I'll make up the sofa."

Oliver nodded, but James thought — perhaps he had imagined it, but he was sure there was a hint of disappointment in his face.

"Are you okay with tea? I don't have any coffee."

"Tea is good," he said.

James was keenly aware of his eyes on him, watching him make them tea. And Oliver didn't look abashed or embarrassed to be caught watching him, when James looked up. Instead, he gave him a small smile before they moved back to the living room.

James sat first, and Oliver planted himself next to him, closer than he needed to be.

"Nothing of him that doth fade, but doth suffer a sea-change," Oliver started reciting, "into something rich and strange."

James laughed again. It was more than he had laughed in half a decade. But a tendril of pain curled up beneath his bosom.

"You really shouldn't," he said.

"What, do you not like Shakespeare anymore?" Oliver said, and there was a teasing tone to his words. He nudged James with his knee.

"I honestly haven't heard any for… a long while," James said. "I don't think I could even to-be-or-not-to-be you."

Oliver looked genuinely surprised and shook his head, like that was the greatest injustice they had been through, that James had put himself through. A lack of the Bard. He really hadn't changed. James tried to hide his smile.

"How long has it been since you seen anyone else?" Oliver said. "From our class, I mean."

"They haven't seen me since before — well, before I left the note."

Oliver nodded.

"Sorry, that was a stupid question."

"It's all a bit of an absurd thing, really, isn't it? I think it warrants stupid questions." James took a sip of his tea, and savoured the way it burnt down his throat. "How about you? Who have you seen since you got out?"

"Yeah. Well, Filippa was faithful until the end. And I stayed with Meredith for a while."

Oliver wasn't looking him in the eyes, but James could see what went unspoken, remembered how Oliver had looked at Meredith.

"But Alex? Wren? I haven't seen at all."

"I saw Wren for a while. I mean — as friends. After…everything, we couldn't even pretend that we would work together," James said. Oliver was watching him carefully, nodding. "But it's been a long time."

"Do you miss us, ever?"

James started, and almost spilled his tea.

"Of course," he said. "What kind of question is that? Every day, Oliver. Every day I relive Dellecher, I wish we could go back to a time before — before — before —"

Oliver reached out, and put a hand on James chest. James took a deep breath in, leant into the warmth of his hand, and then breathed out.

"Before I did what I did, I suppose," James finished, his nerves calmed.

"I suppose what I'm actually asking," Oliver said slowly, his eyes soft and searching, "is if you really missed me at all?"

"Oliver, I —" but he couldn't say it. His lips could not form around the words he wished to say. So instead, he groped through his mind, to find something — some way to communicate to Oliver without having to say the words themselves. He closed his eyes, his brain straining under the search. It had been such a long time since he'd quoted the Bard. "For where thou art, there is the world itself, and where thou art not, desolation."

He daren't open his eyes, and he was holding his breath, he knew. But then he felt Oliver's hand press harder against his chest. He risked a look. Oliver's eyes were wet and…something else. James thought it was, perhaps, hope.

"I thought, sometimes, while looking for you, that I had been wrong about the note. Or that you had left it to let me know you were safe, not that I should come looking for you. Or that you'd have changed your mind, in all the intervening years."

James shook his head. He knew he was crying. Oliver's cheeks were wet now too, and it took everything in James to stop himself from reaching out and wiping them away.

"Though, honestly, I didn't think — I didn't think you'd actually come find me," James said, his voice breaking. "I don't know how you can forgive me so easily, always. You were always too good."

"Do you forgive me? For taking your place?" Oliver said.

The question caught him off-guard, and tore at a little part of him. He put his cup down, buying himself time to consider the question. Then he nodded.

"I think so."

"That's a start," Oliver said. "If you want to, I mean, we can start from there. But we don't have to—"

That was enough for James. So many long years. So many years of denying to himself at all that he wanted to kiss him. And then one, single kiss, as lovely as it had been, as heartbreaking as it had been, 15 years ago. To wait that long, and then to wait a moment longer, was unbearable.

He leant across the sofa, and took Oliver's face in his hands. He pressed against him, softly at first, and then harder, savouring the feeling of Oliver's lips on his, of the taste of his mouth, of the little groan that escaped him that sent James' nerves skittering.

He pulled back, breathe ragged, and looked at Oliver. So many years. So many years, wasted because of what James had done. But then Oliver smiled, and it was hard to think of it.

"Do I have to stay on the sofa?"

James gave a belly laugh. "I suppose you don't, no."

They didn't go upstairs immediately, though, but stayed downstairs and spoke for longer. And sometimes they just sat, in silence, for long minutes, and James languished in the sound of Oliver's breath, in the smell and warmth of him, sitting besides him on the sofa after all those years apart.

But then, Oliver yawned, and so James took his hand and led him up the stairs. They went slowly, shuffling, unsure. James wondered if Oliver had ever been with another man. James hadn't, but he knew he wouldn't have to worry about embarrassing himself in front of Oliver — Oliver was much too kind for that.

They lay, at first, unsure. And then James had found him in the dark, and kissed him again. Oliver's kisses had turned from just responses to their own needy soliloquy, trailing down James' neck and up his cheeks, down onto his chest and across his shoulders, little acid kisses that burnt through his skin and left a mark as they went. And James had replied in kind, and they had learnt each other for the first time, in the way that James had imagined, but also in a way he couldn't possibly have imagined, until they were both spent.

And while James drifted in and out of a half-sleep, Oliver curled around him and whispered: "I would not wish any companion in the world but you, nor can imagination form a shape, besides yourself, to like of." and kissed his neck so tenderly that James sighed and he felt some small fragment of the pain inside himself fall away.


End file.
